This writer’s fears come mostly at night.


Tired Mind

The writer’s fear is a nighttime thing,
unopposed by daytime occupation
The tired mind, completely undefended,
languishing, adrift in useless dread
Thought becomes a witless blinking

Sounds amplified, every slightest move
a scratching shriek against the pillow
Conviction’s color fades to black and white,
projected against the wall in patterns
Mystical, beyond the scope of reason

What if inspiration never comes again
That thing that keeps me working and alive,
gone south in flocks, like ducks or geese
Migrants in flight, pursue that deepest fear,
the coming winter snows of barren thought

One day there may be no returning flights,
no beating wings to celebrate the spring
A winter never ending and no words to write
The flocks all hatch in other warmer ponds
and rear their young alone, away from me

The writer’s fear is not a morning thing, it fades,
dissipated, lost before the early signs of dawn
Sun that warms these frozen lakes, rises still
and welcomes back the mating flights again
Another season to hunt the ducks of words

Poetry Collection: The Smell of Tweed and Tobacco
This poem is included in
Jim Freeman’s
poetry collection

THE SMELL OF TWEED
AND TOBACCO

available here in print
or as an e-Book
in your favorite formats.